


The Serpent's House

by hope_in_the_dark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (credits to 'A Nanny? In MY Summoning Circle?' by pukner for that one), (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), M/M, Orphanage, Orphans, The House In The Cerulean Sea AU, Warlock's nickname is Lockie, more tags to come as they become relevant!, this is 98 percent soft times I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_in_the_dark/pseuds/hope_in_the_dark
Summary: Aziraphale Fell has been working at Heaven's Gate, Inc for the better part of twenty years as an assessor of orphanages for children with magical abilities. His life had been perfectly normal and beautifully boring until the day he was summoned to the Office of the Archangels and given an assignment that will turn his life on its head.(Note: this is an AU set in the world of TJ Klune's The House in the Cerulean Sea, and while I recommend that you read it, it's not necessary to do so to understand the plot of this fic!)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 67
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reasonably_tattered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reasonably_tattered/gifts).



> Hello, lovely readers! 
> 
> I am _so_ incredibly excited to share the first chapter of this fic with you. It's been bouncing around in my head for months now, so I decided to sit down and write the first chapter today. I hope you like it! Also, as I mentioned in the summary: you don't have to have read The House in the Cerulean Sea to understand this fic. The plot is heavily rooted in that novel, but the characters are all Good Omens, and there's no prior knowledge required for either in order to have this story make sense! 
> 
> I'm estimating 10-ish chapters for this, but we'll see! I'll update whenever I have time. For those of you reading [Across the Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25237720/chapters/61177384), please know that I will continue to update / finish that story as well -- this one was just calling to me at the moment!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos keep me going. Thank you for all the love and support!

Heaven’s Gate, Inc was not, in Aziraphale’s opinion, an altogether terrible place to work. It had its flaws, of course, and he could admit that the rule book was a bit stricter than most people would have cared for, but it ultimately served a very important purpose. Heaven’s Gate was a government-contracted corporation that focused on the care and management of children with magical abilities. The company owned and managed a few hundred orphanages for such children, and caseworkers like Aziraphale were responsible for ensuring that the Masters of these orphanages treated the children well. 

On the morning of the Monday that would change his life forever, Aziraphale was typing up a report from his recent visit to the Oxbow Village orphanage. To his right, his coworker Charles was scrolling through a new list of assignments and sighing every few seconds. 

“Is everything quite all right?” Aziraphale asked Charles in a low whisper. 

“I’ve got a performance review,” Charles groaned. 

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale sympathetically. He didn’t take his eyes off of his computer screen for fear that one of the floor supervisors would spot him and give him a demerit. Five demerits led to a dock in pay, and Aziraphale simply refused to accept that he would ever do anything to earn _that._ “With whom?” 

Charles slipped down into his chair and sighed. “Cherub.” 

Aziraphale grimaced. Ms Cherub’s personality was the precise opposite of what hername implied; she was the Executive Supervisor for this floor, and everyone (including Aziraphale) had a healthy fear of her and her demand for every employee’s strict adherence to the company rules. 

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale said in a tone he hoped passed for comforting. There was no guarantee that Charles would be fine, of course, but something told Aziraphale that mentioning that would not be productive. 

“If I don’t come back after the meeting this afternoon, tell my husband I love him,” said Charles. 

Aziraphale stifled a laugh — making too much noise was sure to draw the attention of a supervisor, and Aziraphale’s laugh was far from quiet — and settled for a smile. In the chair next to him, Charles straightened up, clicked a button on his keyboard, and continued to scroll through his list of upcoming assignments. 

An hour later, Aziraphale put the finishing touches on his Oxbow Village report, inserted his digital signature, and typed his final recommendation in red-colored bold font at the bottom of the last page: _Master seems to have coached the children’s answers regarding the fire-setting situation on last Wednesday, June 15. Send upper-level caseworker for further review._ He allowed himself a satisfied smile, flexed his fingers, pushed his glasses up his nose, and tapped the Submit button. 

No sooner had he done this than the soft click-clacking of someone’s high heels became audible, and Aziraphale stiffened. The room in which he worked was massive; there were twenty-six rows of desks labeled with letters in alphabetical order, and each row contained thirty desks divided into blocks of ten with an aisle between each block. Desk L11 had been Aziraphale’s since he had been promoted to the third floor of Heaven’s Gate’s corporate offices in downtown London five years prior, and he was quite comfortable with his position there. It was directly next to an aisle, which meant that Aziraphale both had easy access to the hallway that led to the break room and that he had a pristine view of any supervisors who were headed his way. 

At the moment, two supervisors were walking very quickly down the aisle, and they did not look happy. Aziraphale swallowed hard, ran a hand through his curls, and clicked open the next assignment on his computer screen. 

The click-clacking of heels came to a stop directly to Aziraphale’s left, and he felt beads of sweat beginning to break out on his forehead. 

“Mister Fell,” said a crisp voice, and Aziraphale shivered. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said politely. He looked up, plastering a shaky smile on his face, and met the cold grey eyes of Ms Cherub. Next to her stood Aziraphale’s least favorite general-level floor supervisor, Mr Throne. He had perfectly coiffed blond hair, immaculate teeth, and he was always dressed in a dark plum-colored suit with a golden Heaven’s Gate pin stuck to the right lapel. “How can I help you both?” 

Mr Throne smiled a terrible smile and thrust a slip of paper toward Aziraphale, who took it obligingly. 

“You’ve been _summoned,_ ” Mr Throne said sharply. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale blinked at him. “Where to?” 

“I’m sure you can read, Mister Fell,” said Ms Cherub. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course, of course.” 

He unfolded the paper, flattened it with his fingers, and read the words that were typed in large black letters. 

_MR AZIRAPHALE FELL IS TO REPORT TO THE OFFICE OF THE ARCHANGELS AT ONE O’CLOCK ON THE DOT. DO NOT BE LATE._

Aziraphale blinked at the note and read it again. The message didn’t change. 

“Um,” Aziraphale said slowly, “why have the Archangels reques-” 

“We don’t _know,_ ” Ms Cherub interrupted, her cold voice dripping with false sweetness. “But this came through for you no more than fifteen minutes ago, and we thought it best to bring it to you immediately.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“So,” Mr Throne said, clapping a beautifully-manicured and perfectly-tanned hand down on Aziraphale’s shoulder with a little too much force, “you’re to report to the Office of the Archangels this afternoon. Ms Cherub and I will come collect you at half-past noon to ensure that you arrive on time.” 

Aziraphale blanched. “That’s… that’s very kind of you, sir, but there’s really no need-” 

“We’ll see you then,” Mr Throne said, his smooth voice heavy with finality. He gave Aziraphale a final shark-like smile, turned on his heel, and left. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said to Ms Cherub.

“It’s a good thing that you’ve adhered to company policy in regards to not keeping any personal effects on your desk,” Ms Cherub said cheerily. “It will make packing up your workspace incredibly simple.” 

“Wh-” Aziraphale started to ask, but Ms Cherub waved him off with a flip of her red-painted fingernails and followed Mr Throne down the aisle. 

Aziraphale didn’t dare breathe until after Mr Throne and Ms Cherub had both disappeared from his line of sight. 

“Jesus,” said Charles quietly when Aziraphale turned back toward his computer screen. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale.” 

“Yes, well.” 

“Really, mate,” Charles said. “I’m gonna miss you.” 

“We don’t _know_ that I’ve been sacked,” Aziraphale protested. 

Charles stared at him and shot him a wobbly smile. “Sure, Aziraphale. Good attitude.” 

Aziraphale forced himself to smile back even as his stomach dropped into his shoes. And then, with a resolute shake of his head, he adjusted his glasses on his nose and clicked open the file of the next orphanage that he was set to review. There was no use wasting time worrying when there was work to be done, was there?

*********

At precisely twelve twenty-seven in the afternoon, Aziraphale heard the sound of Ms Cherub’s high heels against the smooth tile floor. He finished reading a page of a file for an orphanage in a small village south of Glasgow (evidently there was a child there who could fly, but who was too young to know how to control it), bookmarked the page, and sent his computer into sleep mode. With shaking fingers, he grabbed the slip of violently white paper off of his desk, took a deep breath, and got to his feet. 

“Good to see that you’re ready to go, Mister Fell,” Ms Cherub said coldly. She wrapped one claw-like hand around his left elbow, and Mr Throne grabbed him by the right shoulder with one terribly beautiful hand of his own. 

Aziraphale was escorted to the lift in this manner. Every time he and his bosses passed a row, the constant clicking of keyboard keys faltered as hundreds of Heaven’s Gate employees stopped to watch him be force-marched out of the office. 

_Dead man walking,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. He found himself stifling a giggle a few moments later, so he shook his head in an effort to clear it. Now was not the time for such an outburst. He’d almost certainly get a demerit, and assuming he still had a job after this meeting, he didn’t want any black marks on his record. 

When Aziraphale and his escorts reached the lifts, Mr Throne smiled and pushed the up arrow on the wall. It illuminated, and a few moments later fell dark once more as one of the lifts emitted a pleasant ding.

“Go on, then,” Ms Cherub said, nearly pushing Aziraphale through the open doors. 

“Show the slip to the camera,” Mr Throne said, still smiling, “and the button for the Office of the Archangels will appear.” 

Aziraphale did as he was told. An automated female voice said, “Transportation to Office of the Archangels authorized. Please press the blue button.” 

With a soft squeak, a square of blank metal above the normal lift buttons slid aside. A glowing blue button with a cartoonish drawing of wings and a halo moved forward, replacing the metal panel. 

“Push it,” Mr Throne said. 

Aziraphale did. 

“Goodbye, Mister Fell,” Ms Cherub said as the lift doors began to draw closed. “You’ve done good work, and you were a valued employee of Heaven’s Gate, Inc and an important member of our corporate family. We appreciate your service.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly. By the time he managed a “Thank you,” the words landed against the closed metal doors of the lift. 

Heaven’s Gate’s corporate London offices were forty floors of steel and glass that rose toward the omnipresent grey clouds. When Aziraphale was younger, his mother had told him that London had once gotten days of sunlight, but those days had long since passed. The London that Aziraphale knew was always cloudy, usually rainy, and often smoggy. Aziraphale was used to it. He was used to everything about his life. He woke each morning at four forty-five, laid in bed for exactly fifteen minutes, got up at five, made two pieces of toast for himself and opened a can of cat food for his tomcat, Oscar, and was dressed and on the Tube by six-thirty. He rode the Tube to the stop in the basement of the Heaven’s Gate building (Heaven’s Gate employed well over ten thousand Londoners, making it the largest single employer in the city and therefore deserving of its own train station), got off, and took the lift to the third floor. He clocked in at seven o’clock precisely every morning. He took his lunch from eleven to eleven-thirty. If he had an orphanage visit scheduled, he would leave at noon. On the rare occasions that the visit would take him somewhere overnight, he would call his neighbor and ask her to feed Oscar in the evening. Otherwise, Aziraphale did paperwork and wrote reports (and double-checked reports from floors one and two) until five-thirty, when he clocked out, took the lift to the basement, and got on the train home. He would make a cup of soup for himself and open another can of food for Oscar, and then he would read a book until nine o’clock, when he would go to bed. 

This is all to say that never, not once in nearly twenty years of employment at Heaven’s Gate, had Aziraphale been higher than the third floor of the London corporate offices. Now, though, Aziraphale was standing very still and watching the numbers on the little screen above the lift doors get higher and higher. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two… on, and on, and on. 

Ordinarily, the numbers on the lift buttons went from B to 39. This would have been a mystery given that Heaven’s Gate had forty windowed floors, but every Heaven’s Gate employee knew that the fortieth floor was reserved for the office and penthouse suites of the Archangels. The Archangels ran Heaven’s Gate; they lived, worked, and socialized on the top floor of the building, and non-Archangels were very rarely invited to pay them a visit. When this happened, it did not usually come about because of anything extraordinarily positive. 

Aziraphale had never known anyone who had actually _met_ the Archangels. He was half-convinced that they were a legend made up by the floor supervisors to scare employees into compliance. For most of his employment at Heaven’s Gate, Aziraphale hadn’t spared the Archangels a second thought. He worked, was paid well, and took pride in the knowledge that he was helping keep special children safe and helping them go on to lead happy and healthy lives. The Archangels had, until today, been of no consequence to him. 

“Floor forty,” said the automated voice, shaking Aziraphale out of his thoughts. The doors to the lift opened with a hiss, and Aziraphale stepped out into an entirely white hallway. 

There was a single door at the end of the hall, so Aziraphale walked toward it. Behind him, he heard the lift doors slide shut, and his heart fell into his stomach. 

When he reached the door, he tried the handle. It was locked. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “That’s… not very inviting.” 

A laugh filtered through a small speaker next to the door. “Sure’s not, mate. What about this place seems inviting t’ya?” 

“Ah, hello,” Aziraphale said. “Not much, I suppose.” 

“Got it in one,” the voice said. The person to whom the voice belonged sounded young, younger than Aziraphale, and probably not male. They snapped their gum and asked, “Wha’s your name, sweetheart?” 

“Aziraphale Fell.” 

“Right, gotcha right here,” the voice said. “One o’clock. Audience with the Archangels.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. 

“Damn,” they said a moment later. “ _All_ of the Archangels.” 

“Uh.” 

“All of ‘em at once.” There was a certain awe, or possibly fear, in the person’s voice. 

“Is that… is that not normal?” 

“Nah, mate.” Aziraphale could hear them tapping on a keyboard. “C’mon in, have a seat. We’ll chat. I’ll explain the pr’tocols.” 

The door emitted a loud buzzing sound, and Aziraphale yelped and jumped halfway out of his waistcoat. When he’d recovered, he tried the door handle again, and it turned. 

Aziraphale walked into the receptionist’s tiny office and gave the blue-haired person behind the desk a little wave. They smiled at him (and it occurred to him that it was the first genuine smile he’d received from someone at Heaven’s Gate, with the possible exception of Charles), blew a bubble with their chewing gum, and pointed to a chair in the corner. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said as he sat down. 

“Hiya.” The receptionist typed something into their computer and hit return before looking over at Aziraphale once again. “Right-o, so. The Archangels.” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’ll let you through that door-” they pointed at a small door on the left side of the little office with one black-painted nail “-at five minutes to one. You should go in, f’llow the lighted path, and then enter the big room at the end. They’ll all be there — they like to sit up above, they do — and you’ll say hello to ‘em all, and then you’ll sit in the chair. They’ll talk at you a bit, and you just nod and say ‘kay and answer any questions they have for ya. ‘Nd when you’re done, walk back the way you came, knock on the door, and I’ll let you out.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “All right.” 

“They’re a bit… intimidating,” the receptionist said. “But if ya show ‘em respect, you’ll be perfectly fine, mate.” 

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale earnestly. 

“Ready, then?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Now?” 

The receptionist checked their watch. “Forty seconds to go.” 

“Oh.” 

“Deep breaths, bruv.” 

“Right.” 

“Twenty-five.” 

Aziraphale stood up, pulled his waistcoat tight over his belly, adjusted his bowtie, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Fifteen.” 

Aziraphale crossed to the door and looked over his shoulder. 

“Right,” said the receptionist, offering him one last warm smile. “Get on, then.” 

There was an audible click. The door swung open, and Aziraphale took a bracing breath and stepped forward into darkness. 

*********

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Hello, then.” 

“Have a seat, Mister Fell.” 

The room was cavernous and cold. Lights on the ceiling flickered to life, and the four shadowy figures that Aziraphale had spotted upon his entering the room suddenly became much more visible. They were perched on a high balcony like gargoyles, staring down at him. One of them bore a striking resemblance to Mr Throne; he had dark hair streaked with grey that was pushed back from his face, and he was grinning at Aziraphale like he’d started smiling a decade ago and had forgotten how to stop. To the right of that man was a rat-faced man with gold wire around his front teeth. A pointy-featured woman sat next to the rat-faced man, and a youngish person with short curly hair and gold leaf stuck on their face completed the quartet. 

Aziraphale sat and tried very hard not to shake. 

“My name is Gabriel,” said the smiling man. 

“Sandalphon,” said the rat-like one. 

“Michael,” the prim-faced woman said with a sniff. 

“Uriel,” said the youngest one. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, and then he poked himself gently in the chest with one finger and said, “Aziraphale Fell.” 

“We know,” said Michael. She smiled down at him without showing her teeth. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve called you here today, champ,” Gabriel said. With a small jolt of surprise, Aziraphale realized he was an American. 

“Mm,” said Aziraphale. 

“We’ve got a special assignment for you.” This was Sandalphon, who was now smiling down at Aziraphale in a way that made Aziraphale feel like a bucket of something slimy had been dumped down the back of his shirt. 

“Oh?” 

“We’ve taken notice of you, Mister Fell,” said Michael. “Your reports are always exceedingly fair.” 

“Th-thank you.” 

“Tell me, Mister Fell,” asked Uriel, “would you say that you often let emotions influence your decisions when you’re on a case?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no. The handbook is very clear about that — the job of a caseworker is to report the facts and make a recommendation. No emotions are to be involved under any circumstances.” 

The four Archangels smiled at him in unison. Aziraphale hated it. 

“And I see here that you are…” Sandalphon trailed off for a moment before finishing his sentence with “...unattached.” 

Aziraphale turned a very vibrant shade of scarlet and nodded. 

“Good,” said Gabriel. “Good, good. I think you’ll be the perfect caseworker for this job, Mister Fell.” 

“Wonderful,” said Aziraphale faintly. “What exactly _is_ the assignment?” 

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and Uriel placed a manila envelope into a slot on their desk. The envelope slid down a chute and sailed out across the floor. It slid to a stop against Aziraphale’s shoe. 

“All of the information is in there,” Michael said. “But we can give you the overview now, if you’d like.” 

“Yes, please,” said Aziraphale. He picked up the envelope and turned it over to see _TOP SECRET_ stamped in bright blue ink. 

“There is an orphanage we would like you to visit,” Gabriel explained. “It’s called Tadfield Island.” 

“Where is it?” 

“It’s on a small island off the coast of Scotland.” 

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled. “There aren’t any orphanages on islands in Scotland.” 

“None that the general employee population know about,” Uriel said. “But we can assure you, Mister Fell, that Tadfield Island orphanage is very, very real.” 

“Tadfield Island is an experiment of sorts,” Michael clarified. “The Master there is… well, he’s _different._ ” 

“The children are, too,” said Sandalphon. “They’re there because they’ve caused trouble at our other orphanages, you see, and that trouble couldn’t be resolved, so they were relocated.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. 

“You’ll be perfectly safe,” Gabriel said. Aziraphale didn’t believe him for a single second. “Anyway. We’d like you to go for a month, and you can send weekly reports directly to me.” 

Aziraphale felt queasy. “A- a month?” 

“This particular orphanage has a unique culture, and we feel that your assessment would be most effective if you were to spend a prolonged time there.” Sandalphon punctuated his statement with another greasy grin. 

“When am I to depart?” 

“Tomorrow morning,” Michael said cooly, and Aziraphale felt like fainting. “We’ll have your current assignments transferred to other case workers.” 

“Oh.” 

“Any further questions?” Uriel asked.

 _Only about a million,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. 

“Yes, actually,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Wh-” 

“We’ll leave you to look over those files, then, Mister Fell,” interrupted Gabriel. “Have a safe trip.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale mumbled. “Thank you.” 

“No, Mister Fell,” Michael said with another cold smile, “thank _you._ ” 

*********

Aziraphale walked back toward the door he had entered with the thick _TOP SECRET_ file tucked under his arm. He was sweating, and he was shaking like a leaf in an autumn breeze, and he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. When he reached the door, he knocked on it, and it opened for him with a click. 

“Hallo, then,” said the receptionist. Then, “Blimey, Mister Fell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” 

“I think I’m dreaming,” Aziraphale said dazedly. 

The receptionist laughed. “Nah, you’re not. Sorry.” 

“It’s quite all right, my dear.” 

“They said I’m to send you home,” the receptionist said, tapping at something on their keyboard. “Let ya get to packin’.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Lovely.” 

The door to the hallway buzzed, and Aziraphale reached for the handle. 

“Have a good trip,” the receptionist called after Aziraphale. The last thing Aziraphale heard before the door shut behind him was the loud popping of a chewing gum bubble.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said to no one for the second time in the span of an hour. Then he steeled himself, adjusted the position of the file under his arm, and walked toward the lift at the other end of the hall. 

For the first time in nearly twenty years, Aziraphale Fell left Heaven’s Gate at one twenty in the afternoon. No one stopped him. No one even looked at him twice. It made him wonder if he could have been leaving early all along, if anyone would have even cared. But those types of thoughts weren’t good to dwell on, and so Aziraphale banished his doubts from his mind as he waited for the train home on the platform in the basement of Heaven’s Gate’s office building.

Deep in Aziraphale’s stomach, an unfamiliar feeling was growing stronger with every passing moment, and he was overcome with the sudden and inescapable terror that accompanied the realization that life as he had known it was completely and utterly behind him. 


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes his way to Tadfield and meets the owner of the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I'd thought I was going to get farther into the story with this chapter, but it went on longer than I'd expected. Hopefully there will be a new chapter of both this fic and Across the Line up sometime this week! 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting <3 
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: mentions of discrimination (against magical folks by non-magical folks, but still), language (I didn't check but I think there's probably a word or two)

Aziraphale had been riding trains of both the above- and below-ground varieties for most of his forty years of life. The Tube was the most efficient way to get around London; the traffic in London was never anything less than abysmal, so Aziraphale had never felt the need to get his driver’s license. Whenever he traveled for work, he took one of the main rail lines out of London. The latter was what he was about to do today, although he’d never gone anywhere quite so far or for nearly as long before. 

Currently, Aziraphale was fumbling with the lock on his front door. Oscar was yowling indignantly at him from his brand-new travel carrying case, and Aziraphale was resolutely ignoring him. The key was stuck in the lock, and if he couldn’t get it out, he’d miss the train, and he’d have to wait until tomorrow, which meant he’d have to send a message to Gabriel, and that was something that he had no desire _at all_ to do. 

“Come on, you ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale muttered to the key. He wiggled it, tugged at it, and pleaded with it for another five minutes until finally, with the high-pitched squealing of metal against metal, it came free in his hand. 

Aziraphale checked his watch. 

“Blast,” he said, scooping up Oscar’s carrier with one hand and his leather travel bag with the other as he ran down his front steps. Oscar voiced his complaint at being handled in such a way loudly and persistently, drawing stares from strangers as Aziraphale trotted down the street to the Tube station. 

There was, Aziraphale mused as he stumbled (out of breath and sweating) through the closing doors of the Underground train that would take him to Euston Station, absolutely nothing that could make this day any worse. 

*********

The grey-blanketed British countryside slipped past the train window, but Aziraphale didn’t pay it any mind. The manila folder that Uriel had given him sat slightly wrinkled on the seat next to him, and the seven files from inside it were stacked one on top of another, resting on his thighs. At the moment, Aziraphale was staring wide-eyed at the contents of the file marked _ADAM,_ scarcely daring to believe the words written next to the child’s name.

“Son of Satan,” Aziraphale whispered to himself. “Is that… it must be a joke, mustn't it?” 

Oscar gave a half-hearted meow from his carrying case, and Aziraphale sighed. There was a photograph of Adam tucked under a paperclip, so Aziraphale wiggled it free and held it up to the light. The child had curly brown hair, dimpled cheeks, and a wide grin. If it hadn’t been for his eyes, Aziraphale would have mistaken him for an ordinary child. The boy had no horns, no leathery wings, no fangs. The only feature that marked him as something non-human was the ring of scarlet on the outside of his pale blue eyes. 

Aziraphale stared at the picture, trying to imagine how he was going to communicate with this young boy. He couldn’t very well just walk up and say, ‘Hello there, my file says that you’re the Antichrist, would you mind letting me in on the joke?’ 

With another sigh, Aziraphale flipped to the next page in the file and began to read about Adam’s disciplinary reports. According to Heaven’s Gate, Adam had been a resident of Tadfield Island since he was three years old, and in the eight years since then, the Master of the orphanage had only filed one report. It was a mere five sentences long, and it had very little to do with Adam at all. 

_I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again: I am well within my abilities to watch and protect my charges. You can stop sending assessors to Tadfield. This last one was cruel, derogatory, and reckless_ — _he provoked Adam into fighting with him._

_I will contact you if I need any assistance or if any of my charges need a caseworker in the future. Don’t expect to hear from me._

_-C_

Aziraphale re-read the report several times, his heart growing heavier each time. This Master was different from any of the others Aziraphale had dealt with in the past; they almost seemed resistant to Heaven’s Gate’s policies. No one that Aziraphale had ever known within the company had dared to rebel against the Archangels and their decrees, but evidently the Master of Tadfield Island hadn’t been informed of this. They sounded curt and fiercely independent, and Aziraphale had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t be especially welcome in the Master’s house. 

Aziraphale closed Adam’s file and slipped it back into the envelope. He opened the next one in the stack, a thick and battered thing with the name _WARLOCK_ scrawled across the front. The child inside was not smiling. He had long dark hair that hung in lank locks around his pale face, and his eyes seemed to bore directly into Aziraphale’s soul. 

The description of Warlock listed a species of magical creature that Aziraphale had long thought to be strictly the stuff of legend. _NightWalker._ From the very little that Aziraphale knew of NightWalkers, they were human-like beings who could control shadows, melt into darkness, walk in others’ dreams, and in very rare circumstances, communicate with the dead. Some legends equated them with certain vampiric qualities, but Warlock’s file didn’t list any complaints of this nature. However, the disciplinary reports that filled the file listed runaway attempts, events in which Warlock had caused mass hysteria and confusion, and far too many instances of Warlock’s nightmare-walking for Aziraphale’s comfort. Curiously, though, none of the reports were signed by ‘C,’ the Master of Tadfield Island. 

With a shudder, Aziraphale put Warlock’s file in the envelope with Adam’s, took a sip of water from the plastic cup provided by the train’s beverage cart, and opened the file labeled _PEPPER._

Halfway through Pepper’s file (she was a dark-skinned young girl with short-cropped curly black hair who could transform into a phoenix on a whim), Aziraphale pulled his notebook out of his bag and wrote down basic information about each child on Tadfield Island. He thought that it would be prudent to have a quick list as a reference instead of digging out each child’s folder every time he needed to remember what they were capable of.

After he’d recorded essential notes about Adam, Warlock, and Pepper, Aziraphale returned to the file. Like Warlock, Pepper had a few dozen disciplinary reports from the Masters of various orphanages, and Aziraphale felt himself begin to sweat. Evidently the Archangels had underplayed the amount of danger that Tadfield Island held, and Sandalphon’s comment about Aziraphale being “unattached” was making an alarming amount of sense. 

An automated voice rang out through the train proclaiming that they were approaching Glasgow Central Station, and Aziraphale hastily shoved the remaining files back into the manila envelope before placing it inside his traveling bag. From Glasgow, Aziraphale would transfer to a train bound for Tadfield Village, a town with the same name as the island that lay a short distance off the coast. According to the very cursory instructions that the Archangels had attached to his tickets to and from Tadfield, someone from the island would meet him at the station in Tadfield Village and take him the rest of the way.

“Almost there, old chap,” Aziraphale said, lifting Oscar’s carrying case into his lap and attempting to make eye contact with the cat. Oscar, who had been sleeping, merely blinked his yellow eyes at Aziraphale and flipped onto his back. 

*********

The train ride to Tadfield was much shorter than the one from London to Glasgow, even though Aziraphale had taken the fast train the first time and was now on one that was traveling at a typical speed. Consequently, Aziraphale decided that he should read the cover pages of the remaining files, look at the photographs, and add the relevant information to his notebook. He’d have time to read over the disciplinary reports later. 

When Aziraphale closed the sixth file, his page of notes looked like this: 

_ADAM - 11 y/o, Antichrist and Son of Satan (?), no specific powers listed. Brown hair, blue eyes with red ring. Tadfield res for 8 yrs._

_WARLOCK - 14 y/o, NightWalker, can manipulate darkness and dreamwalk and probably other things. Long black hair, dark eyes. Tadfield res for 6 yrs._

_PEPPER - 13 y/o, phoenix, can fly and heal and raise herself and other things from the dead (_ **_talk to Master about this last power_ ** _). Short dark hair, dark skin, orange-brown eyes. Tadfield res for 6 yrs._

_WENSLEY - 11 y/o, forest sprite, can make things grow and disappear in a forest. Brown hair, green eyes, glasses, freckles. Tadfield res for 7.5 years._

_BRIAN - 12 y/o, faun, can create feelings of fear. Dark brown hair, grey eyes, horns. Tadfield res for 8 yrs._

_MARCUS - 13 y/o, shapeshifter, takes the form of a small black-and-white dog. Pale blond hair, brown eyes. Tadfield res for 1 yr._

Aziraphale pushed his glasses onto the top of his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. He would be fine, wouldn’t he? The Master of the orphanage might not like him, but at the very least, Aziraphale was an employee of Heaven’s Gate and the Master was therefore responsible for keeping him safe. He’d be fine. 

The last file was the only one with a first and last name, and it was even thinner than Adam’s had been. The name _ANTHONY CROWLEY_ was typed in the same blue ink as the stamp that proclaimed the contents of the envelope to be a secret. With a shake of his head, Aziraphale slid his glasses back into place and opened the file. 

The first thing that Aziraphale saw was a slip of silver-white paper. It was under the paperclip, blocking the file’s photograph from view, and a short note to Aziraphale had been typed in blue ink. 

_Mr Fell,_

_This is the Master of Tadfield Island orphanage. Please include assessment of him as well as the children in your reports, and make a final recommendation regarding his fitness to carry on in his current occupation by the end of your visit to Tadfield Island._

_Congrats again on this special assignment! You are a valued member of our Heaven’s Gate family._

_-Gabriel_

Aziraphale frowned at the note. He’d been asked to review Masters before, of course, but it was usually just an implied part of his job description. The Masters never had files of their own, either — Aziraphale would simply monitor their behavior, watch the way they interacted with the children under their care, and advise that they be removed from their post if he saw anything especially untoward. He’d never heard of an assignment that seemed to be targeted at the Master instead of the children, but if that was what Gabriel wanted him to do, he would do it. 

Aziraphale carefully removed the note from its place over the photo and stuck it in the pocket of his waistcoat. It wouldn’t do to have this Crowley character finding out that he was the target of an official Heaven’s Gate assessment. 

The photo sent a chill down Aziraphale’s spine, but the feeling that flashed through Aziraphale’s mind wasn’t fear. The man in the picture was jarringly handsome, and he was _exactly_ Aziraphale’s physical type, and Aziraphale was suddenly working very hard to convince himself that this would not be a problem. 

According to the photograph, Anthony Crowley had artfully tousled red hair, a smattering of freckles, and a smirk that was making it very hard for Aziraphale to concentrate. He wore dark sunglasses that rested on cheekbones so prominent they could cut glass. Despite the fact that Aziraphale couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he felt like they were sharing some sort of joke. 

With a tremendous amount of effort, Aziraphale pushed the photograph aside to look at the single-page overview in the hopes of finding something about Mr Crowley’s past or the length of time he’d served as Master of Tadfield Island, but no such information was provided. In fact, save for the man’s name and age (thirty-seven, which Aziraphale was almost irritated by because it meant that this annoyingly attractive man was within his preferred dating age range), everything on the overview page was redacted. The page was full of thick black lines and still smelled faintly of permanent marker. 

Exasperated, Aziraphale stuck the file back in the envelope with the others, put the envelope once more into his traveling bag, and settled back in his seat to look out the window. There was a book in his bag, but his wandering mind didn’t even think to reach for it. 

The countryside got progressively less dreary and grey, which was somehow one of the most terrifying things Aziraphale had ever experienced. He’d heard, of course, that there was a time when the British Isles used to get more than one or two days of sunlight a year — the major cities were always greyed out by smog and rainclouds, but parts of the country saw the sun once in a great while — but he’d not stopped to think about the possibility that blue skies might be visible from the coast. Now, though, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and Aziraphale stared at the brightened countryside with a mixture of wonder and fear. 

Would the island have sunlight? It was off the coast, so it might. Aziraphale hadn’t thought to buy sunblock; he wasn’t even sure where he would have gone to look for some had he thought of it, really. Perhaps there would be some at the orphanage. They’d have to have some if they got more than a few days of direct sunlight on a regular basis. 

Aziraphale was shaken out of his thoughts by a loud chiming noise and the crackling speaker-modulated voice of the conductor announcing that the train was pulling into the final station on the line, a stop in Tadfield Village. Just as he had done before, Aziraphale pulled Oscar’s travel case onto his lap, double-checked that his own bag was securely closed, pushed his glasses up his nose, and got to his feet. When it came down to it, it didn’t matter if Aziraphale was ready to face sunlight and a NightWalker and a phoenix and a sprite and the son of Satan and a red-haired man with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips. It didn’t matter, because Aziraphale couldn’t go back. He was here for work, and he couldn’t fail the Archangels. His feelings on the matter of his current circumstance amounted to nothing. 

The train slid to a stop, and Aziraphale walked to the end of the car, stepping out of the doors and onto the platform. He saw a few others disembark from other cars, most of whom were wearing floppy sunhats and ridiculously bright shirts. Vaguely, he remembered someone at work mentioning Tadfield Village as a quaint spot for a summer vacation, but since Aziraphale had never used his vacation days (he didn’t see any point in traveling somewhere alone unless it was for work — all of his favorite things were in his house), he’d never been to this or any other coastal village before. 

Aziraphale set Oscar down on a bench and reached for his mobile phone. There were no messages from anyone. 

And then a warm voice said, “Aziraphale Fell?”, and Aziraphale spun on his heel. 

The speaker was a young-ish woman with curls of dark hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore thick glasses and a floor-length blue dress that brushed the tops of her tanned and sandal-clad feet, and she was smiling. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m here to collect you. You’re headed to Tadfield Island?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “And you are?” 

“Anathema Device,” the woman said, sticking her hand out. Aziraphale took it. 

“Hello.” 

“Welcome to Tadfield Village.” Anathema’s dark eyes twinkled. “The island is a little ways — it’s about a ten minute drive through town, and then we’ll take the ferry across the little channel.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound as professional as possible. Anathema had a disarming smile, and it was making it difficult to retain the company-standard level of detachment.

“Can I help you with your bags?” 

With a nod, Aziraphale handed her his leather traveling bag, but he kept a tight grip on Oscar’s carrying case. To his surprise, the cat was quiet. Oscar normally made quite a scene on the rare occasions that he was around new people, so Aziraphale lifted the crate to eye-level to make sure that the poor darling was still breathing. 

He was, and when Aziraphale met his eyes, he arched his back before settling down at the back of the case for a nap. 

“Who’s that, then?” Anathema asked as she led Aziraphale out of the station. 

“My cat,” said Aziraphale. “Oscar.” 

“I love cats.” Anathema stopped at the side of a vintage black car and popped open the boot, placing Aziraphale’s bag inside. “I assume Oscar will ride in front with us?” 

“Yes, please.” 

With a wink and a smile, Anathema walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for Aziraphale before moving to the other side and taking a seat behind the wheel. Clumsily, Aziraphale shoved Oscar’s carrying case on the floor and climbed into the seat, bracing his feet on either side of his precious cargo. 

“So,” Anathema said slowly as she pulled out of the car park, “Heaven’s Gate.” 

“Yes.” 

“Worked there long?” 

“Over nineteen years.” 

One dark eyebrow shot into the middle of Anathema’s forehead. “Wow. Do you like it there?” 

Aziraphale’s ordinary response would have been a ringing endorsement of the corporation, but his experience in the past day had put a bit of a damper on his normal faux enthusiasm. So he said, “It pays the bills, and I like to think that I’m putting a bit of good back into the world by helping people.” 

Anathema hummed. “I see.” 

“It’s treated me very well, though,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “The work, I mean.” 

“I suppose that’s good.” 

“It is.” 

“How’d you get this assignment, then?” 

Aziraphale ran his hands over his waistcoat, smoothing it down. “I’m a caseworker. Tadfield Island is an orphanage. It simply was assigned to me.” 

Anathema laughed. “We don’t get caseworkers on the island. Haven’t for, oh, five years?” 

“Five?” Aziraphale asked incredulously. Caseworkers were supposed to do check-ins on each orphanage twice a year, plus extra visits for concerning incidents or reports of misconduct by the Masters. A moment later, Anathema’s words registered in Aziraphale’s brain, and he asked a second question. “Wait. ‘We’? You work for Heaven’s Gate?” 

“God, no.” Anathema laughed again. “Never.” 

“But you work on the island.” 

Anathema glanced over at him. “Yes, of course. It’s mine.” 

“It can’t be _yours_ ,” Aziraphale said. His head was spinning. “There’s a Heaven’s Gate orphanage there, which makes it government property.” 

“Usually, yes. But not this time. Not this island.” 

“No, no, I’ve read the handbook, those are the regulat—” 

“Tadfield Island isn’t your average Heaven’s Gate orphanage,” Anathema interrupted. Her tone was soft and kind, so Aziraphale bit back his rebuttal. “It never has been. Look, Mister Fell, can I give you just one piece of advice?” 

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate.” 

Anathema shrugged. “You don’t have to take it, but I’m going to give it anyway.” 

“There’s really no need.” 

“There _is,_ " Anathema said. 

“I’ve done assessments like this countless times before,” Aziraphale tried to explain. 

“No,” said Anathema seriously. “You haven’t. My advice is this: forget everything you know about what an orphanage is, what it looks like, and how it runs. The island is different, Mister Fell. There’s nowhere like it, and I don’t just mean compared to other orphanages. There’s nowhere like it in the world.” 

For once, Aziraphale didn’t argue. He didn’t cite the company regulations. He simply stared, swallowed hard, and asked, “Why?” 

Anathema smiled at him. “Crowley.” 

“The Master?” 

“If you call him that, he’ll kill you,” Anathema said with a chuckle. “But I suppose technically, yes.” 

“If he’s not the Master of the orphanage, who is he?” 

Anathema’s dark eyes twinkled again. “He’s just… he’s Crowley. I promise you’ll understand, Mister Fell, when you meet him.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale said faintly. “So. The island is yours, and you let the orphanage have part of it?” 

“I work at the orphanage,” said Anathema. 

“What? But you said you aren’t a Heaven’s Gate employee.” 

“I’m not,” Anathema said. “I’m a _Tadfield Island orphanage_ employee.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale. He already had a headache, and he’d only been in the company of a Tadfield Islander for six or seven minutes.

Anathema grinned. “I know.” 

The remainder of the ride to the ferry was mercifully quiet. Aziraphale looked out the window, noting the way that people on the street stopped to stare or make rude gestures at the car as he and Anathema drove by. This wasn’t entirely unusual; many of the locals in towns that housed orphanages were upset by the fact that the orphanages and their inhabitants were located so close to ordinary people. It appeared that Tadfield was no exception. 

Anathema pulled the car to a stop in front of the ferry gate and cranked down the window. An old man in a large brown trench coat approached the window, gave a disgusted-sounding snort and said, “Who’s this, then?” 

“This is Aziraphale Fell,” Anathema told the man. “He’s from Heaven’s Gate. He’ll be on the island for the next month.” 

The old man grunted and sniffed haughtily. 

“Mister Fell,” Anathema said, “this is Shadwell. He runs the ferry. If you ever need to get back to the mainland during your stay on the island, let me know, and I’ll give Shadwell a call.” 

Shadwell sneered. “Oi, I don’t work for ye, lass.” 

“Oh?” Anathema asked sweetly. “Got many other people who want to take journeys to the island, do you?” 

At this, Shadwell’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. He stomped away, muttering something under his breath as he went, and pushed a button that opened the gate. 

“He’s not the nicest man, but he never refuses to give me a ride,” Anathema told Aziraphale when she had closed her window. “Needs the money. No one from the village ever comes to the island, and the villagers warn the tourists away, too.” 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. 

“Really, though, Shadwell’s all bark and no bite,” Anathema said. 

“I’m sure.” 

Anathema parked the old black car on the lower level of the ferry and cut the engine. She got out and leaned against the bonnet, waiting for Aziraphale. Aziraphale sighed and followed her, bringing Oscar with him. With a smile, Anathema locked the car and led Aziraphale up a set of rickety metal stairs that dumped them into a shabby-looking seating area. Anathema took a seat on a bench near the window and indicated for Aziraphale to sit across from her. 

The majority of the trip passed in silence. It wasn’t a long journey, but Aziraphale had never been on a boat before, so he spent most of his energy praying that the ferry would stay afloat and that Shadwell knew what he was doing. Anathema left Aziraphale alone, opening a thin book that she had been keeping in one of the pockets of her dress. 

After a quarter of an hour, the ferry pulled into a dock on the island. Shadwell stomped down the stairs and said, “Get off.” 

“Thank you, Shadwell,” Anathema said. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, trying to quell the shaking in his voice and console himself with the thought of being on dry land again very soon, “thank you, Shadwell.” 

Shadwell grunted, and without saying anything further, turned on his heel and left the room. 

When he had gone, Anathema gestured to the stairs and flashed Aziraphale a small smile. 

“Shall we?”

*********

Aziraphale had expected Tadfield Island to be a small piece of rock with very little vegetation and a large house in the center. He’d assumed that there would be a typical Heaven’s-Gate-sanctioned sign proclaiming the name of the orphanage, and he’d hoped that he would find the island to be suitable enough for children. He had not expected to find a large island covered in rolling hills and clumps of forest or a place where wildflowers grew along a well-manicured dirt road. He’d thought that the orphanage would be visible from the dock, but it wasn’t. It was nestled deep in the heart of the island, sheltered by copses of birch, oak, willow, and elm. 

“Right then, Mister Fell,” Anathema said as she pulled the car up to the front of the large stone house, “I’ll show you to your cottage.” 

Aziraphale blinked. “Cottage? I assumed I’d be staying in the main house.” 

Anathema shook her head. “There’s a groundskeeper’s cottage just around the back of the house. Crowley thought you would have a nicer stay if you weren’t in the main house at night — some of the children have nightmares, you see, and it can get to be a bit much.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale considered protesting, but he decided against it. He would be here for a month, which would provide him enough time to sneak into the orphanage at night at some point to ensure that nothing untoward was happening under the cover of darkness. It would be best not to upset his hosts so soon upon his arrival by requesting a change of residence. 

So Aziraphale said, “Lovely. Thank you,” and allowed Anathema to bring him around the side of the house and unlock the door to a decent-sized stone cottage. 

“Right,” Anathema said, setting Aziraphale’s travel bag down in the main room of the cottage, “I’ll leave you to it. Dinner is served at seven in the main house.” 

“You…” Aziraphale trailed off. “You want me to eat with you?” 

“With everyone,” Anathema said. 

Aziraphale stared at her. 

“We eat together, and given that you’ll be our guest for the foreseeable future, Crowley thought it would be good for the children to get in the habit of seeing you do what they do. It’ll help them open up to you if they trust that you want to be around them.” 

“That’s quite unusual,” Aziraphale said. 

“I’m sure it is.” Anathema’s dark eyes were twinkling again, brightened by a laugh that she didn’t allow to cross her lips. “Anything else before I go?” 

“The Master of the house,” said Aziraphale quickly. “Would you mind pointing me in his direction so that I may meet him before dinner?” 

“He’s in a private lesson with Adam at the moment, but I’ll tell him to come and find you when he’s done.” 

_Private lesson?_ Aziraphale wondered, deciding at the last moment to keep that question to himself. He would ask the Master himself later.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said with an attempt at a smile. 

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” Anathema said. “Crowley warned me about your lot, but you don’t… well. I think I just might like you, Mister Fell, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t.” 

“Is that so?”

“Comes of years of hearing horror stories, I suppose, and a few subpar experiences of my own.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, meaning it. 

“It is what it is.” Anathema fixed Aziraphale with a piercing stare for a moment before saying, “I should let you get to it, then. See you at dinner.” 

“Seven o’clock,” Aziraphale said.

“Seven o’clock.” 

Anathema moved toward the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of her dress, but Aziraphale stopped her. He wasn’t entirely sure _why_ he did it or even why he felt compelled to say what he said next, but there was a tightness in his chest that demanded it.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “You’ve been very kind. It’s a welcome change of pace, you know.” 

“I know,” Anathema said softly, and Aziraphale was surprised to find that he believed she actually might have done. 

In a whirl of blue fabric and dark hair, Anathema breezed past Aziraphale and strode toward the house, leaving only the faint trace of a laugh and the ghost of floral perfume with Aziraphale in the cottage. 

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, bending down to look at his furry companion. Oscar stretched, flexing his claws against the pad at the bottom of his traveling case. “What do you think of her?” 

Oscar pressed his body up against the thin bars of the crate and meowed. 

“Rather,” Aziraphale agreed. He unlatched the gate and Oscar slunk out into an unfamiliar place, taking careful steps with his tail raised and twitching. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw a shadow on the front porch of the cottage shift positions ever so slightly. The front door was still open, so Aziraphale shut it hastily and wiped his palms on his trousers. 

“Too late,” a young voice said. It was toneless, devoid of any sort of identifiable emotion, and Aziraphale’s veins filled with ice. Slowly, Aziraphale turned on his heel to find a pale-faced boy with long dark hair stepping out of a shadow, hands facing palm-out with fingers stretched wide. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said shakily, and everything went dark.


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale meets Crowley, and he joins the residents of Tadfield Island for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! I know it's been nearly two months since the last update to this fic - I've written quite a few things in the meantime, though, so feel free to check them out if you'd like. Thanks for being here! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Things start to pick up a bit in the next chapter, I promise; this one has some more character introductions and introspection on Aziraphale's part. I promise he'll stop musing about how different everything is soon. 
> 
> No warnings that I can think of for this chapter!

Aziraphale reached backward, fumbling for the doorknob or anything to hold onto. He could hear Warlock moving around the room, the boy’s footsteps soft and careful against the cottage floor. 

“My name is Aziraphale Fell,” Aziraphale said. “I work for Heaven’s Gate.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

“It’s my job.” Aziraphale’s palms were sweaty when they collided with the wall, and he pressed himself back against it. 

“You should go,” Warlock said, voice still toneless and flat. “I’ve met too many people like you. You make me go away to somewhere else. I don’t want to go anywhere else.” 

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t the slightest idea what my recommendation will be in a month.” To himself, Aziraphale thought, _This encounter hasn’t exactly been the best first impression the boy could have made if he was hoping to stay on this island._

“I don’t want you here.” 

“I can, ah. I can tell.” 

“I want you to leave.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Aziraphale said, trying desperately to calm his racing heartbeat. The boy wouldn’t actually _hurt_ him, would he? That would be a surefire way to make sure Tadfield Island orphanage closed for good. 

Warlock’s footsteps stopped for a moment, and then they quickened. It sounded like the boy was running, and Aziraphale braced himself for impact. He squeezed his eyes shut, as his fingers tightened against the wall and his head bent toward his chest. 

“Lockie,” said an older voice that sounded like velvet and smoke, “what on _earth_ do you think you’re doing?” 

Aziraphale opened one eye and was surprised to find that he could see. The darkness that had filled the cottage moments only moments earlier had vanished, leaving the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight in its place. 

“I don’t like him,” Warlock said, pointing an accusing finger at Aziraphale. “I want him to go away.” 

Aziraphale opened the other eye and straightened himself up. Warlock was ignoring him at the moment, focusing instead on the other man in the room. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure how Crowley had gotten into the cottage, but given that Crowley had possibly saved his life, he wasn’t going to ask any questions. 

Crowley was, impossibly, more beautiful in person than he had appeared in the photo in his file. He was tall, probably a full head taller than Aziraphale, and almost impressively thin. He had lanky limbs and long fingers, and his dark red hair was styled in waves that just brushed the tops of his shoulders. The sunglasses that had been present in the photograph were on his face, and he was dressed in a black suit with a wine-colored shirt underneath that was unbuttoned at the collar. 

“We talked about this,” Crowley said sternly, placing a hand on Warlock’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Go and find Nat, please. She and Newt need your help in the kitchen tonight.” 

Warlock looked as if he was about to protest, but Crowley raised one eyebrow, and Warlock snapped his mouth shut. With one final withering glance in Aziraphale’s direction, Warlock opened the front door of the cottage and began to walk toward the main house, shutting it with a wall-shaking slam behind him. 

“Sorry about that,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. “He’s not usually like that. Not anymore.” 

“Lucky me, then,” Aziraphale muttered. 

“It won’t happen again.” 

“You didn’t…” Aziraphale paused, searching for the right words. “You didn’t discipline him.” 

“I will,” Crowley said, leaning his hips against the back of a floral-patterned sofa. “But not in the way I assume you’d expect.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale said slowly. 

“I’m Crowley,” Crowley said, pushing himself away from the sofa and crossing the room in three short strides. His hand was outstretched, and Aziraphale saw black nail polish painted on his fingernails. 

“Aziraphale Fell.” 

“Mm,” grunted Crowley, and Aziraphale shook his hand. It was warm and soft and Aziraphale was _not_ thinking about it, nope. 

“Miss Device told me on the drive that you haven’t had the most pleasant experiences with past assessors,” Aziraphale said. Crowley arched an eyebrow above his sunglasses. “I assure you, I don’t intend to bring harm to you or any of the children on this island.” 

“Well, it’s good you don’t intend to.” Crowley’s tone was built of broken wood and barbed wire. 

“I will do my best to avoid it,” Aziraphale said, punctuating the statement with a sniff, “but ultimately I will make recommendations according to what I feel is right for this orphanage and its residents.” 

“Of course,” Crowley said drily. 

“And in the interest of transparency, Mister Crowley-”

“Crowley,” Crowley interrupted. 

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Sorry?” 

“Crowley,” Crowley repeated. “Not Mister Crowley. Not Master Crowley. Not Master. _Definitely_ not Anthony. Just Crowley.” 

There was a pause, and then “Fine. Crowley.” 

“Thank you.” 

“As I was saying,” Aziraphale said, narrowing his eyes in the other man’s direction, “ _Crowley,_ in the interest of transparency, you ought to know that I am an extremely experienced caseworker. I have been an employee of Heaven’s Gate for nearly two decades, and I have seen more attempts at trickery and tomfoolery in my day from your fellow orphanage Masters than you would dare to believe. Consequently, my being here has terms to which you must agree.” 

Crowley was smirking, a dimple pressed into his cheek. “Must I?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said firmly, “you must.” 

Both of Crowley’s eyebrows slid upward onto his forehead. “Go on, then.”

“I will not be lied to,” Aziraphale said, holding up a finger as if ticking off items on an invisible list. “The children will not be instructed on the ‘correct’ answers to my questions. I will have unrestricted access to all areas of the house for assessment. And _you_ will work with me, not against me. Have I made myself clear?” 

Crowley’s smirk had stretched into a smile, and something fluttered in Aziraphale’s stomach. He ignored it. 

“Crystal,” said Crowley. “Right, then. Tour of the grounds before dinner?” 

*********

Aziraphale stood in front of the mirror in the cottage’s bedroom, fussing with his bowtie. The grounds that made up Tadfield Island orphanage were extensive; aside from the main house and the groundskeeper’s cottage, Crowley’s tour had included a treehouse (which Aziraphale had decided not to climb up to — he had a terrible fear of heights), an expansive garden, an enormous sandbox, and an old bus that had no hope of running that Crowley and Anathema (Nat, he called her) had converted into a place for the children to play. 

When Aziraphale had asked, Crowley had laughed at the idea that he’d be able to show Aziraphale the entire island before they were due in the main house for their meal. He’d smiled at Aziraphale then, beautiful but also dark and sharp-edged, and he had promised that no part of the island was unavailable to Heaven’s Gate’s scrutiny. 

_‘Crowley warned me about your lot,’_ Anathema had said, and Aziraphale found himself wondering how a man like Crowley had ever come to work for Heaven’s Gate. If the report in Adam’s file that Crowley had written to the Archangels was any kind of indication, the man wasn’t on the best of terms with his employer. He was cordial to Aziraphale, and he’d agreed to follow the rules, but he didn’t _like_ Aziraphale. He didn’t trust him. 

Oscar rubbed his long body against the bottom of Aziraphale’s shin, shaking Aziraphale free of his thoughts. 

“You’re right, my dear,” Aziraphale said, bending to run his fingers along the length of Oscar’s spine, “I really should be going. Wouldn’t want to be late.” 

Aziraphale made his way toward the main house, hands clasped in front of his belly. He looked up at the house and its many brightly lit windows, and something like apprehension settled in his chest. His only encounter with any of the children so far had been the rather unpleasant darkness and threats issued by Warlock; Crowley had pointed out the main house on the tour of the grounds, but they hadn’t gone in. Apparently, the children were having ‘free time,’ and Crowley hadn’t wanted to disturb them. 

Sighing, Aziraphale climbed the few steps to the house’s back door. He steeled himself, fidgeted with his bowtie one more time, and knocked. 

The door swung open to reveal a pale man with short dark hair, thick glasses, and a nervous smile. He looked to be at least a decade younger than Aziraphale, but he was decidedly not one of the children from Aziraphale’s files. 

“Mister Fell, I assume,” the man said. “Come on in, we’re just about to sit.” 

Aziraphale wiped his shoes on the mat outside the door before following the young man inside. Wordlessly, the man led him down a long hallway, eventually turning right through a doorless archway. Aziraphale stepped into the room and was confronted with the sight of an enormous rectangular table, which was set with ten chairs and place settings. 

“Ah,” the man said, “don’t think I introduced myself.” 

“You didn’t,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’m Newt Device.” One pale hand reached (trembling somewhat) toward Aziraphale, who took it and gave it a shake. 

“Device,” Aziraphale said slowly. “You must be related to Miss Device, then.” 

Newt grinned. “Sort of.” 

“We’re married, Mister Fell,” came a familiar voice from behind Aziraphale. Anathema swept into view, her hands full of water glasses. She began placing them on the table. “Newt was kind enough to take my name — I had no interest in taking his.” 

This did not surprise Aziraphale at all, but he decided against saying as much. Instead, he smiled and said, “Lovely.” 

“My old surname was Pulsifer,” Newt said helpfully, wrinkling his nose. “Not a winner, that one.” 

“I think Device is a lovely surname,” said Aziraphale as he tried desperately to figure out how exactly he had gotten into a conversation about surnames. “It suits you both.” 

“Thank you,” Anathema said. 

“Yeah, thanks,” said Newt. 

As soon as Newt had finished speaking, the sound of a great many small feet on the upper level of the house filtered down to the dining room. A chorus of excited voices tumbled over each other, and one shadow-soaked voice of velvet carried over them. The footsteps and voices clattered down the stairs, and then they stopped. 

Aziraphale swallowed. Nine pairs of eyes — the six children as well as Crowley, Newt, and Anathema — were fixated on his face. Crowley looked like he was trying not to smile, a smirk curling at the right corner of his mouth. In front of him, crowded together like penguins seeking warmth and protection, were the children. Warlock was, unsurprisingly, glaring at Aziraphale with as much venom as he thought he could get away with, but most of the others were looking at Aziraphale with some mixture of fear, suspicion, and excitement. 

Mouth suddenly very dry, Aziraphale coughed and said, “Hello.” 

“Hi,” said a curly-haired boy with eyes that were mostly blue but ringed with red. Aziraphale recognized him instantly as Adam, the alleged Son of Satan. “Lockie doesn’t like you.” 

Warlock grumbled something like “Shut up, Adam” and was subsequently reprimanded with a soft “Oi, be _nice,_ ” from Crowley. 

“This is Mister Fell,” Anathema said. The kids nodded. One of them — the faun, although Aziraphale was having trouble remembering his name — even gave him a smile. “We told you that he’d be coming to stay with us, do you remember?” 

There were more nods. 

“Right, then,” Crowley said, clapping his hands together with a sound like a gunshot, “good. Mister Fell, we’ve set a place for you between Adam and Pepper.” 

Aziraphale gulped. “Ah.” The prospect of sitting next to the Antichrist was not, Aziraphale had to admit to himself, the most appealing one. 

“They tend to be very chatty,” Crowley said. It would have sounded like a warning had it not been for the barely-disguised laugh that followed. “But they’ve assured me that they’ll be hospitable.” 

“What’s hospitable mean?” Adam asked, tugging on the sleeve of Crowley’s suit. 

“Nice,” Anathema answered. Adam wrinkled his nose. “Welcoming. Polite.” 

“Ew,” said Adam, and Aziraphale tried his best not to flinch. 

“Go sit,” Crowley said, giving Adam and the others a gentle push toward the table. They did as Crowley instructed, and Aziraphale watched each child settle in at the table, each in front of a different-colored plate. There were four white ceramic plates that remained in place; one was at the head of the table, two were placed together at the opposite end, and the final one rested in the middle. Each plate was heaped with pasta and salad.

When the children had found their seats, they looked back at Crowley. He slid his long body into the chair at the head of the table, and Anathema and Newt took their seats at the other end. Aziraphale wiped his palms on his trousers before sitting down at the final empty chair, doing his best to ignore the way Pepper and Adam were staring at him. 

As soon as Aziraphale was seated, the dining room began to fill with the sounds of chatter and the clinking of metal on ceramic. The entire dinner routine had been well-coordinated, which made Aziraphale suspect that it was a show put on for his benefit. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for Masters to change their daily routines in order to impress case workers, so Aziraphale made a mental note to write about the meal in his first report. Heaven’s Gate’s corporate management might have an idea about whether any of this was genuine.

Aziraphale’s stomach chose that moment to growl, so he picked up his fork and tried a bite of his dinner. It was an interesting and delicious change of pace from his usual canned soup, but he promised himself that he would _not_ get used to this. He would be here for a month, and he would do his job, and then he would be home once more. There was no point in getting used to anything on this island; enjoying things wasn’t part of his job description.

“‘Lo,” Adam said around a mouthful of pasta, and Aziraphale nearly dropped his fork. “Crowley says you work in a big city.”

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Adam, who had tomato sauce smeared across his freckled face, did not take the hint. 

“Sounds boring,” said Pepper from Aziraphale’s other side. 

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale protested. He ignored the creeping feeling in his gut that suggested this was a lie. “It’s a simple life, especially in comparison to the one you have here, but I like it.” 

His stomach squirmed again. He chalked it up to the change in diet. 

“Bo-ring,” said Adam. 

Pepper made a considering noise before taking a bite of buttered bread and asking, “Do you like setting things on fire?” 

Aziraphale coughed. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Have you ever lit somethin’ on fire?” Adam had set down his fork and was grinning at Aziraphale, a piece of basil caught between his front teeth.

“No.” 

“We like setting fires,” said Pepper.

“Yeah,” said Adam. 

“We do it all the time.” Pepper was grinning now, too, her smile almost as wide as Adam’s. Something in her eyes was uncomfortably warm, so Aziraphale turned his gaze back toward his dinner. 

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked. “And your Master condones that, does he?” 

“Crowley says we’re s’posed to explore our powers, Mister Fell,” Adam said with a roll of his odd-colored eyes. The red ring around his iris had grown slightly, creeping in on the blue. 

“Yeah,” said Pepper. “How else would we know how to use them?” 

The point of a Heaven’s Gate orphanage was, as far as Aziraphale was aware, to teach magical children how to control their special abilities. He’d never been to one that encouraged its residents to _use_ them. 

“I suppose I couldn’t answer that,” Aziraphale said mildly. “I haven’t any abilities of my own, you see.” 

Adam giggled into his salad. “We _know_ that.” 

“We can tell,” said Pepper. 

Aziraphale was inexplicably offended by this. He liked being normal. He liked having a steady job and a comfortable house and a lovely little cat to keep him company. Still, a blotchy blush was rising in his cheeks, and he did his best to tamp it down. 

“How can you tell?” Aziraphale asked. 

Adam shrugged. “Feels different, bein’ around you. Not like being with Pep or Brian or Lockie or Dog or Wensley or-” 

“You feel boring,” Pepper interrupted, shooting an indecipherable look in Adam’s direction. Adam made a huffing sound and took another bite of salad.

Something that Adam had said had caught Aziraphale’s attention, so he elected to ignore Pepper’s choice of description. “Dog?” 

Adam pointed to the tall blond boy who was sitting to Crowley’s right. Crowley appeared to be talking to him, but he wasn’t saying anything in response. 

“Tha’s Marcus,” Adam explained. “He doesn’t like bein’ called that. Likes to be called Dog.” 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“He’s also a dog,” Pepper said with a sigh, evidently under the impression that this clarified everything. “When he wants to be. And he likes to be a dog more than he likes to be a person, and he doesn’t think Marcus is a very good name for a dog.” 

“Who named him Dog, then?” Aziraphale asked. 

Adam smiled up at him. “Me.” 

“And how did you come to do that?” 

Adam poked at the last of his salad with his fork. “Dunno. He asked ‘f anyone had a name for ‘im and I said Dog. Saves a lot of trouble, a name like that.” 

“Doesn’t anyone find it a bit…” Aziraphale gestured meaninglessly with his spoon. “I don’t know. Dehumanizing?” 

“Wha’?” 

“Means like an animal,” Pepper said before Aziraphale could. “Like, not like a human.” 

Adam looked even more confused than he had before. “Dog’s not a human. He’s Dog.” 

“He’s his own Dog,” Pepper said to Aziraphale. “He’s no one else’s but his own.” 

Aziraphale’s head was aching, so he said, “Ah,” and told himself that he would ask Crowley later. 

Pepper and Adam continued to talk to each other in a series of rambling tangents that Aziraphale found increasingly impossible to understand. They seemed to have forgotten that Azirapahle was there, which was something that had never happened to Aziraphale before at any other orphanage. The children were normally hyper-aware of his presence, and the Masters were normally hesitant to leave him alone with the children if they were at all concerned that they were being investigated for wrongdoing. 

Once again, Anathema’s voice ran through Aziraphale’s head. _‘Forget everything you know about what an orphanage is, what it looks like, and how it runs,’_ she had said. Aziraphale didn’t want to do this. His hands wanted to reach for the Heaven’s Gate corporate rulebook, to shove it under Crowley’s smirking face and into Anathema’s hands and demand that they read it. Tadfield Island was a strange place that ran on chaos and isolation and rule breaking, and almost every part of Aziraphale felt like running from it. 

In spite of this, though, there was also something magnetic and wonderful about the island that made Aziraphale want to stay, and that was the worst thing of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](https://hope-inthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, if you would like to make any sort of creative work (art, podfic, whatever) based on this or any of my stories, consider this blanket permission to do so! I only ask that you would tag me in your work so that I can see it and share it! Thank you for being here, and thank you for reading. I hope you are having the best day!


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